


Liquor, oh sweet liquor

by Llamadramaphan



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Coming of Age, Growing Up Together, Heavy Drinking, Implied/Referenced Incest, Light Angst, M/M, Sibling Incest, Underage - Freeform, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-18
Updated: 2016-08-18
Packaged: 2018-08-09 11:28:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7800016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Llamadramaphan/pseuds/Llamadramaphan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>To all the drinks Sam and Dean have shared. <br/>To all the scars and stories told in crooked lines across their skin.<br/>To the boys who were like gunpowder and fire.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Liquor, oh sweet liquor

The first drink they share, is whiskey.

Straight up.

Their mouths were too young for it, their lips bitten too raw, their throats clenching painfully as the searing hot liquid made its way into their system. 

The words they spoke were stringed together by hope and childish bravery, the feeling of being invincible to the world’s evil plans. To the dark shadows which lurked, to the tragedies that their dad took home with him after every day of ‘work’. 

They felt invincible, with their pink lips attached to the stolen bottle, with their throats on fire and their eyes twinkling with enjoyment and a sense of brotherhood that has ever since their births acted as their personal lifelines. The sense of brotherhood that caused them to throw fists, the sense of brotherhood that caused them to stick together like glue, that caused them to remain in place when the powers of the world were tugging at them like children, fighting for their favourite toy.

They felt like they could get away with leaving the empty bottle next to their sleeping heads, the felt like they wouldn’t get in trouble, felt like their dad wouldn’t come home this early anyway.

He did.

But the boys – a pair of gunpowder and fire – wouldn’t stay away anyway.

They were too drawn to the liquids that constantly seared down their daddy’s throat, that they had seen their uncle bobby chug down like nothing their whole life, that they heard people their age talk about with a sense of amazement in their voices.

The next time, it was vodka.

Straight up.

It felt like fire and glass as it went down, but warmed them like they imagined one of those fireplaces would, if their dad would ever let them light them.

They drank more of it, the competition strong between them, and the fuzzier their minds grew, the more the problems of the world which was already lasting heavy on those two boy’s shoulders, blurred out into the background. Their attention was on the brim of the bottle, which they had let fall into the other’s backpack carefully that same evening, their attention was on their reddened cheeks and the shared gloss in their eyes.

This time, they were smarter with the deposition of the remnants of their fun – and after the bottle was gone, after it had crashed into others of its kind, they went to walk down the street of yet another nameless town. 

They walked down with their hands in their pockets, nameless boys to everybody living in that nameless city. They were shadows, passing by, and whenever somebody walked past, they’d notice the behaviour those brothers sported. 

They would draw up their nose, judge the two silently in their minds before continuing their way down the road.  
They would never believe them if you’d tell them the tale of those two boys.  
They’d never believe you if you told them that those two would be the ones to damn and save the world one day.  
They’d never believe you if you told them that the younger one learnt how to hold a gun when he was two, or that the older one knew how to fix wounds better than most doctor’s apprentices.

But that didn’t matter much.  
It never would.

Because not many nights later and they were leaving said town again, riding along in that sleek black car that had old time lovers all over the world swooning.

Their third drink was bourbon.

Straight up.

A small little bottle, sneaked from the counter uncle Bobby kept his drinks on, right into the elder’s pocket, where it dug into his thigh as he walked across the yard to where his brother was standing, waiting. They decided on a car, already trained well enough in silent conversation to be able to understand without actual sounds being made, because ‘that would come in handy’ as their father would say.

They snuck into a beautiful old timer, another Chevrolet model because what was known was what made those two the most content.   
From then, they shared the bottle again, shared it like they’ve always done with everything in their lives.

They passed it around, like soldiers after a battle, and even though the elder kept repeating warnings and expressing his worries, the younger brother just kept chugging, complaining that “We’ve done this so many times before, and now you decide to be on my ass about it?”.   
There was a drawl in his words, a certain bitterness that either came from the bourbon’s smokiness or their actual lifestyles – the elder brother decided on the first, for his own mental health’s sake.

They shared the bottle as they shared stories – stories of what their dad could possibly be after this time, stories of the people at the new school, even though they were always referred to as what made them important to the story (that chick in English, from when Dean made out with her in English class. That marvel geek from when Sam had stolen comics from a Marvel fan in his class), never by name. Because names were like poison to the Winchesters, more vicious than the one they were chugging right now.   
Because names meant attachment, because names meant possibly remembering someone after they were already gone.  
And the elder would laugh at his little brother’s tales, as the younger one would blush at the details he got out of the boy sitting next to him, on the driver seat. 

By the time that they had run out of tales to tell, half of the bottle was gone and their minds were finally fuzzed again, finally freed of all the dark shadows that had started creeping up on them by now.  
It didn’t take them as long to do so, as one might think – the Winchesters didn’t have many stories of other people, filling their brains. And they’d learnt from the best. Learnt how to chug a whole drink in one go, learned how to conceal their distaste as the burning liquids rushed down their too-young throats.

They had lost count by the fourth drink, but it probably was rum.

Straight up.

Because it was winter when they drank it, at least the Elder swears it was, because that was when their father first decided that his first born son was of age to have his first drink with him.

They kept throwing glances at each other, full of the knowledge which they couldn’t possibly share with their father, who sat at the table with bloodshot eyes and told them stories of the lady he’d saved recently, of the monster he’d killed.

They never interrupted his stories, just sat there with closed mouths and active minds, trying to picture what it would be like – what it would be like to follow the path their father kept drawing for them to imagine.

There was more distaste in one of the brothers than the other – but they didn’t speak of that either.

And when the Elder crept to the younger one’s side during the night, when their father had already laid his head down on the table and was snoring steadily – the only times his son’s had ever seen him display something like peace – they also shared their drinks in silence. 

They drank out of glasses for the first time ever, and the younger one was careful not to let his little boy hands shake too much as he went to drink, whilst the other one didn’t bother giving said things too much thought – they’d be out of this motel room by tomorrow night anyway, so who cared about stains?  
Who cared about stains on the carpet, stains on the blanket, stains on each other’s jeans, stains on each other’s hearts.

Nobody did.

And those who said they did?

They were liars.

Liars, who pretended to care about the blue and lilac flower blossoming along the line of the Elder’s jaw, who pretended to care for the dried red on his jeans which he had forgotten to wash, who pretended to care when no parent showed up at school, when the Winchesters would walk the few miles home even though everybody knew that the motels were at the other end of the city.

The Elder decided to hate liars.

The other drinks were of a wide range of everything.

Beer, gin, brandy, tequila… it all blurred together into a massive amount of liquid, passing through the Winchesters lips and teeth, hitting their throats with the normal burn that became familiar to both of them long before either of them had learned how to drive.

The only thing that remained the same was, that they shared them.

Brims of bottles passed from one’s lips to the other’s, a silent kiss shared that neither acknowledged, with other ones following, those times with their actual skin touching in the dim lights of a motel room, of a parking lot, of the back of a deserted diners.

They never spoke of those either.

They remained silent, just like they used to before the father’s stories turned into realities, before they didn’t grit their teeth in an effort not to throw up as they stitched dad up, but because they didn’t want to cry at the feeling of their own skin being strung together again after having been ripped open.

They remained silent as desperate touches in complete darkness turned into open need, displayed when the Eldest Winchester wasn’t looking, when they were secluded, drawn back into their own personal world which no one had ever dared to enter ever before, which no one would ever be able to enter.  
Liquor passed their lips like secrets, spoken into listening ear shells, liquor burned their throats like their sins burned their hearts, turned them into dark, crumbling remnants of what once was – the purity, the sacredness.

But the Winchesters never had much to do with sacred things anyway, huh?

They lived in the shadows, long enough to not acknowledge when they became the shadows, long enough not to notice when the casual drinks turned into lifelines, when their hands started to shake and their brains were filled with ‘not a junkie, not a junkie, not a junkie’.

They were abusing more than just the liquor.

They were addicted to more than just the slow burn, the fuzzed feeling, the lack of worries and guilt, which just kept building and building over the years that they spent, hell-bent on each other’s side.   
The years that it took to turn child soft skin into millions of bumps and jagged lines where the needle had done its work.  
Sticking to each other like superglue, sticking even when the world tried ripping them apart.

They were gunpowder and fire, even though sometimes, the lines of who was who became so blurred that neither was able to recognise them anymore. 

Not that it mattered.

Because if one burned,  
the other burned with him.

**Author's Note:**

> I know that this won't get much attention, seeing how they don't fuck in this story, but hey, I really enjoyed writing this so why not get it out there?
> 
> If you enjoyed the story, please give kudos or leave a comment - I almost cry of happiness every time somebody tells me that they enjoy my shitty ass writing.
> 
> Y'all don't have to of course, thanks for reading anyway xx


End file.
